Bad Reputation: Queen City Boys, #2

For RCK

She knows what spies do.

QUEEN CITY is often used to describe the largest city in a country, state, province, or territory that is not the capital. In 1869, Seattle was given the epithet The Queen City of the Pacific. This lasted until 1982, when the Seattle–King County Convention and Visitors Bureau adopted The Emerald City as the new moniker. Seattle has many names: Jet City, Rain City, the City of Flowers, the City of Goodwill, the Emerald City. Still, some residents find the old name better recognizes the culture they live in and speaks to the hidden history of their city.

1.

A Paler Blue Glow

AT THE END OF COYOTE Run Lane, on the edge of the Olympic forest, miles from Port Angeles, Shane Fontaine visited an intimate world of comfort and pleasure inside Trevor’s old Chevy.

The vinyl seat stuck to Shane’s bare back. A sliver of starry sky shone through the window. Patsy Cline sang on the radio.

Listen, Shane said.

Yeah? Trevor stretched over him, grinding against Shane’s hips, the two of them slick with sweat. It’s an old song.

Not just ‘You Belong to Me,’ but also the hum of the heater. The wind in the cedars. The scent of them. We’re in a forest palace, the trees protecting us from the world, keeping winter at bay.

You sound like one of your fantasy novels. Trevor bit Shane’s lip, then kissed away the injury. You’re talking too much.

Maybe you were right earlier. Maybe 1982 will be our year. We could leave. Go to San Francisco. Or Seattle.

It’s going to be my year because— Trevor kissed him, wet and teasing —I finally turn twenty-one and get my trust fund. We can leave after that.

That’s a long time. At six-foot-two, Shane was cramped in spite of the Chevy’s spacious back seat, but the true source of his discomfort was his fear of a future when Trevor might disappear. Eight months until we can be together somewhere besides the middle of the woods. Shane wiggled into a better position.

Mmm, do that again. Trevor’s hips pressed on Shane’s. While you’re at it, I can think of better uses for your mouth than this pointless talk. You could—

A tap on the driver’s window.

Trevor jerked to attention, knocking heads with Shane, who struggled with his jeans, a door handle digging into his spine. Then the door opened behind him, and Shane sprawled on the cold dirt road.

An unfamiliar face loomed over him. Blue-and-red lights flashed, spoiling the forest palace.

Exit the car slowly, hands where I can see them. A deputy shone his blinding flashlight at Trevor. Oh, what’s this? I come out here to keep the boys off little girls, not this mess.

You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Deputy. Trevor spoke with a haughtiness Shane rarely heard from him. Out of the back seat, Trevor stood face to face with the officer.

What? The all-American captain of the Port Angeles football team? The deputy mocked him.

Yes, as a matter of fact.

What’s a good-looking guy like you doing out here? The deputy put his hands on his hips, the light from the patrol car flashing over him. Handsome. New. Not from any nearby town. Rolling around with a dirt-brown Indian? The deputy did not acknowledge Shane.

I’m not an Indian. First words out of his mouth. Shane hated that everything always started with that.

That what your mama told you? The deputy smirked. Get up. Put your hands on the hood of the car. Stay there.

The hood was at least warm where Shane leaned with his arms spread, bare-chested, jeans still unbuttoned. He knew this forest. He could run—and wander in the winter woods shirtless. Risk charges for assaulting a cop.

You don’t know who my father is. Trevor’s voice promised punishment.

This buck says his father isn’t an Indian. You gonna tell me yours is, blondie? The deputy unclipped cuffs from his utility belt. Even if he’s a chief, he likely won’t be happy with this. Get your shirt on. Then you, too, put your hands against the car.

The deputy reached in and shut off the idling Chevy, pocketing the keys. He crawled over the seat, rifling through the glove box, searching the ashtray and under the floor mats, reaching under the seats.

Doesn’t matter what you find. You’re going to be sorry. Trevor slipped into his jacket and put hands on the cruiser’s hood without glancing at Shane.

The deputy backed out of the car, holding up the last two cans from a six-pack of Olympia that Shane had bought weeks ago.

Hope you’re both twenty-one. Don’t think I’m going to be the sorry one here. He tossed the beers into the trunk of the police car and came back around to the front.

Twisting Shane’s right arm, lifting him off the hood of the car, the deputy jerked the left arm back to cuff Shane’s hands behind him. Tugging at the cuffs, the deputy shoved Shane into the back of the patrol car, making Shane duck to avoid hitting his own head on the doorframe.

While blue-and-red lights still flashed, the deputy handcuffed Trevor’s hands in front, opened the far door, and let Trevor step in to sit beside Shane.

Fuck, Trevor muttered. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Retrieving Shane’s shirt and jacket from the Chevy, the deputy tossed the wad of clothes on Shane.

Shane’s shoulders burned, hands mashed in fists behind him. But the growing wedge between him and Trevor hurt more. When the deputy put the cruiser in gear, Shane longed for one gesture, one word of comfort from Trevor.

Guess this is it. Trevor stared out the window, voice pitched low.

Neither spoke during the three-mile ride to the Clallam County Sheriff’s office. Whatever they’d been to each other these past six months vanished under the flashing blue-and-red lights.

Shane wiggled enough that his old motorcycle jacket partly covered his bare chest, so he could stop shivering.

◊

Inside the station house, no one was happy that the new deputy brought in the mayor’s son. Johnson, a deputy Shane knew, removed Trevor’s cuffs and took him aside to talk softly before sending him into the sheriff’s private office and closing the door.

Deputy Johnson returned, removed Shane’s cuffs, and handed him his t-shirt and Pendleton flannel.

Erikson is not gonna like this. What the fuck were you boys thinking? I hope I’m not here when the mayor comes. Johnson led Shane to the tiny cell in the corner.

Not the first time Shane sat there with no one to call. Aunt Sandy’s refusal to help could be guaranteed when she learned the charges. His cousin Dixon had always come through for Shane, until he went off to basic training in Georgia, a world away.

Four hours later, Shane rolled his shoulders, clicking them into place, stiff from restless dozing on the hard cot.

"Okay, kemosabe, time to face the chief." Deputy Dipshit led Shane into the sheriff’s private office. No sign of Trevor. No charges would be brought against Trevor. Shane would lay good money on Trevor never publicly speaking to him again. A familiar ache of loss settled in Shane’s chest.

Close the door, Fontaine. Sheriff Erikson didn’t look up from the paperwork on his desk.

Both times Shane had been here before, the sheriff let him go because of his long friendship with Shane’s grandfather. Afraid the sheriff’s goodwill had also passed when Granddad died, Shane dutifully closed the door, but he remained standing near it, anxiety tying knots in his stomach.

For distraction, Shane studied the wall of photos behind the desk, showing Sheriff Erikson with various mayors, governors, people who mattered. And there, in the middle, a picture like one that also hung on the wall in Shane’s trailer: Shane and Dixon, about nine years old, shirtless and barefoot, wearing shorts, gleefully holding the crabs they’d caught. Behind them, each with a hand on the boys’ shoulders, stood Sheriff Erikson and Granddad, young and strong. Nana and Mrs. Erikson sat to the side in patio chairs, mostly cut off, but you could see Nana’s smile, her healthy cheeks. Beyond the ribbon of the beach, the endless Pacific Ocean stretched in the background, reaching to the other side of the world.

The picture marked the year Shane declared he didn’t want to be called Vincent or Vinnie. Everyone simply accepted it, though it took Aunt Sandy a while to remember to use it. Nana never called him anything but sweetie or Sonny Boy, like Granddad did, but they introduced him as Shane from then on and corrected neighbors who used his former name. Worse than imagining Granddad saw him from heaven, if it existed, were the happy eyes gazing at Shane in that picture here. A reminder of the world before everyone went away.

Finally, the sheriff laid aside his pen and nodded to the chair holding Shane’s leather jacket. Picking up the coat, clutching it like a security blanket, Shane sat. He felt the intensity of the sheriff’s gaze like a physical pressure.

I made sure you got Dixon’s jacket, because I know it matters to you. But don’t you end up like his daddy, serving time down in Stafford Creek. Sheriff Erikson shook his head at Shane’s uncle’s bad choices. Your grandparents were good people. Politics near to socialism, but they were fine people. Those old Lefties did a lot for this community.

Nodding at this truth, Shane didn’t speak, knowing to wait until a question was asked of him. The sheriff’s fondness for his grandparents deepened the ache in Shane’s chest.

The sheriff’s tight expression also seemed sad. Not much left in this town for you, son, with your family gone. You been fighting and in trouble since the last funeral.

Shane nodded, the unfairness of trouble biting at him. Someone lying, saying you stole, just so they could skip paying you for honest work—they should have been in trouble, not him.

But I gotta tell you, this is it. Out of respect for your grandfather’s friendship, I’m not going to charge you like I should, Sonny Boy. Lewd behavior, indecent exposure. You know Trevor’s not twenty-one like you, so I could add contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

Relief flooded through Shane. The childhood nickname indicated forgiveness. He opened his mouth to say thank you, but the sheriff kept talking.

Get out of town. Join the army with your cousin Dixon. Or hitch a ride south. I don’t care. Just take your perversion out of this town. Go find your place in the world. There’s nothing left here for you. Once word gets out around here, you won’t be picking up your granddad’s old handyman jobs anymore.

Shane clenched his fists. His throat closed, cutting off the pleas he wanted to make. He stared at the clock.

6:18 a.m.

The second hand clicked, barely audible, moving with that same jerky sweep as the clocks in his high school. Seconds ticked by; the minute hand shook as if the gear it itself anxiously pushed time on.

The sheriff watched him, grey brows drawn together as if disappointed. The polite, socially required gratitude stuck in Shane’s throat. He couldn’t accept the gift of freedom with no place to go, no one to go with him. Loss blooming in his chest, Shane managed to rasp out a response.

Yes, sir.

Heartbreak became his everyday companion five years ago, with his Nana’s last days in the hospital. When he got the call about his granddad’s heart attack last spring, Shane’s soul filled with constant sucking pain. In the sheriff’s quiet office, that pain threatened a permanent return. The town that preserved so many memories of his family was lost to him now.

Afraid of what his face showed, Shane studied the industrial-green linoleum tile, his eyes resting on few newer, brighter tiles—replacements his granddad did years ago. Shane’s whole life was in this town.

This is for your own good, Sonny Boy. Maybe you can’t see it now. With your family gone, there isn’t anyone here to speak for you. Maybe you can go out to the Rez. Mayor Miller respects the tribe’s decisions. You could ask—

I’m not Makah. Shane named the nearest tribe. I mean, I’m not sure, but there’s no one there I know.

Sheriff Erikson’s expression softened. That was bad business with your mother. After we searched for her for weeks, she just walked back in seven months later, sick and carrying you, refusing to say who or what happened. Blessings come unlooked for, though. You were your grandmother’s comfort after your mother died.

Anger burned in Shane’s belly. Over the sheriff’s shoulder that picture highlighted happier times half a lifetime ago.

Yes, sir. Shane remained unsure what exactly he was answering for. This was worse than jail, worse than being wrongly accused.

That’s all then. You can go.

Shane went to the door, shoving back all the angry words rising up, the appeals, the promises he wanted to make in hopes of a different outcome. His hand on the doorknob, Shane would lose everything once he stepped through that door.

Even the floor was suspect now. Nothing left that Shane trusted to support him. Where would he go? Trevor dreamt of escaping to the city, Seattle or San Francisco. Alone, Shane never considered leaving the county.

Son.

Tears welling in Shane’s eyes, ready to hear what he could to do to be able to stay.

Yes, sir?

Don’t you try and contact the Miller boy. His father’s already packing his bag, sending him to a place that can fix whatever is wrong with you boys. Best you’re gone before he gets back. But the sooner the better. Don’t want to run into Mayor Miller anywhere after this. This is for your protection too.

The pity in the sheriff’s expression didn’t change anything. Shane nodded to show he understood, afraid of what might happen if he spoke. He walked across the station to the exit, unable to ignore the voices behind him.

You just letting that Indian faggot go? His father ain’t no one important too, is he? The asshole deputy’s voice grated. Shane gritted his teeth against a regrettable response.

Sheriff Erikson answered with audible anger. Lonnie, shut the fuck up. You’ve done enough damage for one night. You need to learn how things work around here before you shoot your mouth off.

Outside, Shane put on his jacket against the February cold. A paler blue glow on the eastern horizon hinted at sunrise.

◊

Shane formulated a plan on the long walk back down the highway, through the closed fairgrounds. By the time he reached the Oceanside Trailer Park, he was calm enough to act on it. Not so different from what Trevor had always daydreamed: head south, work along the way.

If Shane slept in his truck, he might have enough cash to make it to California. An hour to pack and load the tools. Plenty of places to stop for odd jobs if he took Highway 101 down the coast.

Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Shane dug under the bottom bunk, moving aside crates of records, his and Dixon’s, until he found his sleeping bag and Granddad’s old army duffel. Clothes piled on the upper bunk, unused since Dixon left, only filled the bag half full. Toothbrush from the bathroom. His old Carhartt jacket.

Shane crushed his cigarette in the ashtray on the counter and peered around the small space. Living out of his truck for a while rendered everything else here useless to him.

Nana’s old creepy clown cookie jar held Shane’s stashed cash. Zipping the cash into the chest pocket of his jacket, he made one more quick check of the trailer before locking up.

Outside, the sun rested on the horizon, bright but still early enough that Shane risked waking his aunt by taking the rumbly truck up her driveway. He chucked the duffel and sleeping bag into the truck bed and walked up the hill. A second padlock hung next to his on the shed where he worked beside his granddad in days past. Carefully pinned at all four corners, a note in Aunt Sandy’s precise handwriting read:

$200 back rent and you can have Dad’s tools back.

As vindictive as she could be, Sandy had never punished him like this over late rent on the trailer. The sheriff must have called her. Shane knocked his forehead against the shed door. This is worse than losing Trevor. Fuck. Fuck.

Walking back to the truck, Shane counted the bills from the cookie jar.

$188.

Enough that he might be able to negotiate the release of his tools. But nothing left over for gas and food. If he found a quick handyman job today he could...

Nope. Not without the tools. If he sold the truck, he couldn’t transport the tools.

Talking to Sandy when he was this angry wouldn’t help. Nor would sitting around. A change of scenery might spark ideas, clear his head. Shane climbed into the truck and flipped the ignition.

Click. Click.

Shane pounded the steering wheel so hard the force of it shook the whole cab. He fought with the door handle and stumbled out. He kicked the door closed, denting it with his work boots. He didn’t need to open the hood. The fucking alternator again. Another $100 at least, and he couldn’t get the part today. Tomorrow if he was lucky, and he wasn’t feeling that way. At least another day to do the work. For which he needed tools.

Shane kicked a tire, beat his fists on the hood until the futility of it set in. Sinking in to the crushed seashells and gravel of the driveway, he heard Nana’s voice. Anger won’t fix this, Sonny Boy. It’ll only slow down finding the solution.

A week wouldn’t untangle this mess. Any solution hinged on begging Sandy to unlock the shed for a couple of days, a kindness she’d withhold until she’d punished him for a considerable while. Waiting for her cruelty to break meant the risk of running into the sheriff or any deputy. Even a week wouldn’t guarantee the cash for tools, alternator, and enough to travel.

The cash he had would get him out of town, hold him over until he found work. When he saved more, he’d come back for the tools and truck—and go to California.

Shane lifted his duffel out of the truck bed and slung it over his shoulder. The day was advanced enough to hitch a ride to the bus station.

2.

You Like Humbow?

SEATTLE’S REFLECTED LIGHTS GAVE THE sky a copper glow. The ever-present cloud cover made it impossible to tell if dusk had passed into full night.

Shane walked up First Avenue from the Irving, the crappy Pioneer Square hotel where he’d slept since coming to town last month. A cheap weekly rate got a room shared four ways in double bunk beds, with a key to a footlocker. Plus a lecture on good Christian values and a curfew. In one month, he’d already missed curfew half a dozen times.

Saturday night, the larger crowds of shoppers and professionals remained a few streets over. Here, downtown’s permanent residents and thrill seekers prowled dirty sidewalks under flashing neon.

Shane passed the adult theaters offering Live Nude Girls. Indifferent to female nudity, he muttered Better than dead girls as he walked by, worrying the girls employed along this strip might truly end up dead. His concern extended to the street kids with expressions too jaded for their young faces, the ones who hustled outside hourly hotels and in front of that donut shop on Pike Street.

Nana’s voice echoed in Shane’s head: The only way you can help people who suffer from others’ greed is to fight for better working conditions. Unable to organize a labor union for prostitutes, Shane continued on, cheered by how Nana might laugh while encouraging such an outrageous idea.

Despite the neighborhood’s unsavory character and decline into ruin, Shane liked First Avenue. The older buildings and wide streets warded off the claustrophobia he felt among the glittering skyscrapers and sharp-suited businessmen. In comparison, First Avenue was a small-town main street in an alternate universe where only pornography, poverty, and diner food existed.

Mid-March, and yet winter held on with a cruel grip. If spring was breaking through, Shane wouldn’t know where to find it in the city. He caught glimpses of nature in Seattle only from bus windows or from the trucks that carried him to day-labor work sites. Monday morning meant the end of that desperation, the start of a new job. A real job. Financial woes hopefully behind him, Shane intended to make the most of the weekend.

Beyond the Pike Place Market neon sign, the grey water of Puget Sound glimmered with urban reflection. Passing the closed farmers’ market, Shane headed to the small shops on Post Alley that offered coffee and unfamiliar food. Under the Mee Sum Pastry sign, a glass case opened onto the street. A man in a yellow polo shirt, his hair carefully blow-dried, leaned on it.

How can you run a business when you can’t get me what I want? I said beef.

Very late, not many left. Only bean and pork.

Can you understand English? That’s not what I asked for.

Stepping right up to him, Shane loomed over the man. Didn’t anyone teach you respect?

I’ll teach you— Arm raised to scold or strike, the man backed off quickly seeing Shane.

Probably you want to eat somewhere else. The effect his size had on people worked to Shane’s advantage occasionally. The man walked away mumbling about those people.

An ancient woman peered over the counter. You back again. Your hair very spiky and hard today... Shane awaited her judgment of his inherited leather jacket, tight black jeans, and worn work boots. Like Statue of Liberty. Very good. Her wrinkled face wore a sweet, approving grin. You are hungry? How many?

Two? Shane pointed to the huge, golden domes of the barbecue-pork sticky buns on the top shelf of the glass counter.

You like humbow so much, come yesterday and today. Her face crinkled with that smile, her eyes almost shut. I give you three, two not enough for tall boy like you.

Shane returned her smile. Thank you. How much?

One dollar.

That’s only for two.

With a shake of her head, she refused to charge for the third bun. Shane gave her two dollars, waving off the change for a tip he couldn’t afford. He got an affectionate wink in return. All the way up First Avenue, Shane had been just another mark for pimps, an anonymous face, otherwise invisible everywhere in this city. But here, this woman remembered, recognized his repeat visits, offered a flash of friendship. Buoyed by her maternal smile, Shane took his bag of fat, warm pastries, big as his two fists together, and headed out of the Market, back into the heart of Seattle to catch a bus out to the University District.

At the corner of Second and Pike, the bus schedule said ten more minutes, so he walked toward the next stop. Eating a roll filled with spicy-sweet pork, he passed under the grim shadow of the monorail tracks.

A group of punk-dressed kids huddled on the grimy concrete, asking for spare change. Soft cheeks and bright eyes belonged to faces with warm homes to return to, parents who fed and clothed them. None of the hardened shrewdness here of the street kids at First and Pike. These kids—their clothes too clean—bummed quarters to buy beer or drugs for entertainment, not because they needed it for survival. Irritated by their presence, Shane crossed the street to where a man sat in a wheelchair, both legs missing below the knee. The man remained silent as kids yelled, Hey, spare change. Got a quarter, man? I know you have at least a quarter.

The man held a cardboard sign: homeless vet, please help. Beside him sat a shaky little grey dog, red bandanna around its neck, halfway to Shane’s knee. Hard to tell if it shook from the cold or just wobbled on its three legs.

Shane handed the man his third sticky pork bun and stomped up the street, resisting the impulse to go back and beat every single one of those loud kids scamming cash when so many people needed real help.

He walked faster to the next bus stop, glad to be going where he could forget this shitty world.

◊

At the Rainbow Tavern in the University District, the Rejectors drew the local crowd of punkers who frequented downtown clubs. The Minutemen, up from California, brought out twice as many of them. Outside, Shane overheard a knot of punks complaining about coming to a shitty rock club, but it appeared everyone came out for the bands tonight.

A need for company opened with the small flush of joy from when the old woman at the Chinese bakery recognized him. Shane scanned the room, hoping to talk with people who might share his world view.

College kids. New Wavers. Those few who you couldn’t tell which were which.

Scattered bunches of old hippies and bikers. A few crossovers there too.

Skaters, like surfer versions of the sharp New Wavers.

No one to talk to.

Spiked hair, loud music, and ripped jeans rarely meant true anti-establishment convictions. Everyone seemed busy proving their cool, or more accurately, showing they didn’t care about being cool.

Shane’s own politics and his radical upbringing distinguished him from most of these people. Few understood the plight of the working class. No experience with logging jobs disappearing in their community or seeing the havoc that mass unemployment caused the poor. The economic problems the city shared weren’t going to be solved by these people spilling beer and vying for social status.

Crowds at the venues near his room in Pioneer Square or farther into downtown Seattle were queerer than this room. But Shane had learned quickly that gay wasn’t always welcome at punk venues. Yet the low possibility of another guy open to homosexual advances didn’t matter much if the music blared loud enough to suppress all Shane’s thoughts. He sought the release music provided. Screaming guitars and thumping bass erased his emptiness for longer than a tryst ever lasted.

He grabbed an empty stool at the bar and ordered two beers, knowing the bartender wouldn’t